While Jiang Zhou was cleaning up these toxic players, related news began surfacing on Weibo. At a glance, it was mostly negative reviews of World, dragging the game down while praising Primitive Survival to the high heavens.
“Shangzhou Games’ products are absolute trash. Not only are the controls complicated, but there are also disgusting campers blocking respawn points. Isn’t this just to force people to spend money on gear?”
“Who could endure being killed over and over? People will definitely smash money into the game. The Shangzhou Games are so repulsive.”
“The comments above are a bit extreme, aren’t they? This is still a closed beta; they haven’t even opened the top-up channel yet.”
“Lol, is the person above a shill hired by Shangzhou? Fifty cents per post?”
“I heard that during the public launch, Shangzhou employees will be given special accounts with top-tier gear just to hunt down regular players.”
The marketing department at Shangzhou Games had been monitoring the online discourse. However, Jiang Zhou had previously instructed them not to act prematurely, so the official website remained silent.
After two hours of fermenting, public opinion had completely shifted in favor of Primitive Survival. It reached a point where if anyone suggested World was good, a swarm of internet trolls would attack them until they were silenced.
Just as netizens were reaching peak disappointment with the World, an official statement finally dropped—and it was a bombshell.
While the marketing department hadn’t posted any clarifications during those two hours, they hadn’t been idle. Jiang Zhou had personally traced the malicious camping accounts and posted their recent “abnormal income sources.” It turned out the payments had come directly from a Kyushu Games account.
The internet exploded. As much as World had been trashed before, Kyushu Games was now being blasted ten times harder. The suppressed fans of Shangzhou Games finally rolled up their sleeves and joined the fray.
“Damn! I knew there was something fishy about so many weirdos in a closed beta. It was Kyushu Games all along!”
“Keep bragging! I knew it was a setup. Now the tables have turned!”
“Claiming plagiarism? Talk about shamelessness. Anyone with eyes can see that the world is much more polished!”
“Ah Shen, everyone online is cursing Kyushu Games now.” As a shareholder, Bai Xiaorou was panicked by the negative publicity.
“Don’t worry, we just need to hire more trolls,” Lu Shen comforted her. He immediately took two million out of his personal account to hire more shills, intending to whitewash Kyushu’s reputation.
Jiang Zhou had been monitoring Lu Shen’s accounts. The moment he spent the money, she posted the evidence—and this time, she didn’t censor his name at all.
“Is this Lu Shen part of Kyushu Games? Why is he spending so much to hire shills? Two million is enough for me to buy a house.”
“I know this one! Apparently, Lu Shen’s girlfriend is a shareholder in Kyushu—that ‘Shareholder Bai’ person.”
“This drama is juicy! It went from simple camping to a full-blown war between two game companies.”
“There’s more. Have you guys heard of the Huashan Group? Lu Shen is a shareholder there too.”
“Wait, my dad is a manager at Huashan. About six months ago, Lu Shen made a bet with the CEO involving company share options. The bet was specifically about whether Shangzhou Games could make money…”
The power of the internet is not to be underestimated. Driven by a hunger for gossip, netizens began peeling back the layers of the feud. Jiang Zhou didn’t let the opportunity go to waste; she hired her own shills to lead the narrative, steering the conversation toward the “reskinning” issue of Kyushu Games.
With the current hostility toward Kyushu, the “reskin” accusation was the final straw. Many players who already had minor grievances began to riot, demanding refunds.
“Why hasn’t that online chatter been cleaned up yet? Take down the trending topics! I don’t want my information online!” Lu Shen panicked after his transfer records were disclosed.
The speed of the leak was terrifying—less than ten minutes after he made the payment, it was already public. This meant he was being monitored. The thought of someone watching his every move made him break out in a cold sweat.
“Director Lu, the heat is too high. If we take down the trending topics now, it’s a tacit admission of guilt. It’s better to insist the transfer records are fake,” the Kyushu team argued.
“Either you take it down, or I withdraw my investment. Your choice,” Lu Shen snapped.
“Director Lu—” Before the marketing director could say another word, Lu Shen hung up.
It was a nightmare. Had they known Lu Shen was this kind of person, they never would have accepted Bai Xiaorou’s investment. They should have just sold the game and bought houses with the money. But it was too late. If Lu Shen withdrew now, Kyushu Games would collapse.
Kyushu Games eventually issued a statement. They didn’t admit to “reskinning” but claimed that since the games were developed by the same team, some plots and gameplay were naturally “similar.” They promised to form an independent team and gave out a round of in-game rewards to pacify the players.
While many players accepted the compensation, a significant portion was utterly disillusioned. Where did these fleeing players go? To check out Shangzhou Games’ World, of course.
…
As the online storm subsided and the trending topics were removed, the search results for Lu Shen slowly vanished.
“Lu Shen spent money to kill the trending topics. Do you want me to buy them back?” Xia Shang asked, sitting beside Jiang Zhou.
“No need for now. Those who need to know already know,” Jiang Zhou said, rubbing her wrists. “Our game has the momentum it needs. We can officially launch after the beta ends.”
Xia Shang nodded. “You’ve worked hard.”
“I really have. My wrists are so sore from writing all that code,” Jiang Zhou said, extending her right hand. “Help me rub them?”
“Okay.” Xia Shang took her wrist and kneaded it tentatively. “Like this?”
“Yes, a bit harder.” Jiang Zhou leaned back and sighed. “The other hand too.”
Xia Shang complied, acting as a quiet masseuse.
[Ding! Restoration Progress +10. Current Progress: 65/100.] The system’s notification rang in her mind.
What about the romance progress? Jiang Zhou asked internally.
[Current Romance Progress: 99/100.]
Still at 99%? Is something wrong?
Jiang Zhou narrowed her eyes at Xia Shang. The woman was looking down, focused intently on massaging her wrists. Jiang Zhou could feel Xia Shang’s love; if this wasn’t 100%, then true love didn’t exist in this world.
But Jiang Zhou wasn’t one to obsess over data. She trusted her feelings and Xia Shang’s. In fact, if staying at 99% meant she could stay by Xia Shang’s side forever, she preferred it that way.
“Xia Shang, what do you like about me?” Jiang Zhou asked suddenly.
Xia Shang looked up, a trace of confusion in her eyes. “Everything. If you like a person, don’t you like all of them? Is it possible to like one part and hate another?”
Jiang Zhou blinked, stumped by the logic. “Then, do you like my personality more, or my face?”
Xia Shang frowned slightly, thinking seriously before shaking her head. “I don’t know. I only know that the person I like is you, and no one else.”
“If that ‘accident’ hadn’t happened at the start, would you still have liked me?” Jiang Zhou couldn’t help but ask about that missing 1%.
Xia Shang answered instantly. “I am not a casual person, nor am I someone who only values looks.”
Oh? So that means Xia Shang already had feelings back then?
“I think my wrist has recovered,” Jiang Zhou hinted.
“So?” Xia Shang’s mind didn’t jump quite as fast.
“Don’t you want to test the recovery… effects?” Jiang Zhou winked.
This time, Xia Shang understood. “I’ll go take a shower.”
“Let’s go together.” Jiang Zhou stood up.
It was a fact that Jiang Zhou’s stamina wasn’t as good as Xia Shang’s. Despite her best efforts to be proactive in the “first half,” she eventually entered a “flat-lining” phase, settling for leaving as many marks on Xia Shang as possible.
…
“Didn’t I tell you not to confront Xia Shang directly unless you were absolutely certain?” A middle-aged man with a short beard sat in a solid wood chair. Lu Shen stood before him with his head bowed.
“If it weren’t for someone monitoring me, the narrative wouldn’t have flipped so fast,” Lu Shen said through gritted teeth. “Dad, I still have dirt on Xia Shang. If handled correctly, it can still deal her a heavy blow.”
“Have you cleared the people around you?” the elder Lu asked deeply. “Even though you suppressed the news, the Yan family found out. They are reconsidering their cooperation with you.”
“It was just hiring a few trolls, not a big deal,” Lu Shen said dismissively. Everyone did it.
“Hiring trolls isn’t the problem; the problem is you did it,” Lu’s father slammed the table. “Leave dirty work to your subordinates. Why soil your own hands?”
“The situation was urgent,” Lu Shen defended.
“It’s just a small game company. If it fails, it fails.” His father stared at him. “Are you telling me you lost your cool over a woman?”
“Of course not. It’s not Xiaorou’s fault,” Lu Shen denied immediately.
“Remember, don’t do it yourself next time.” Lu’s father took a deep breath. “And remember, some things only require results. The process doesn’t matter. If necessary, use special means—just make sure you wipe your tracks clean.”